


Alive

by tanchouz



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 22:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9145369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanchouz/pseuds/tanchouz
Summary: When you don't know what to do just trust your instinctswith many thanks to What_we_are for help in beting this fic!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualjesse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualjesse/gifts).



It’s funny how words can be so open to interpretation.

Mike has lived long enough to learn it firsthand.

The apartment rental ad said: “Comfortable, fully furnished, quiet colors that rest the eye. Nice neighbors. No pets.”

A young lady from the house next door brought Mike cupcakes, and that was really nice. In the night, Mike awoke with a start to the screams and sounds of police sirens. Half-awake, he grabbed the gun and watched through the window the cops leading out a nice lady and her friend, both overamped on drugs. 

The comfortable apartment was fully furnished with dingy sofas and old appliances that were frequently out of order. Quiet colors turned out to be dull and depressive, like those in interrogation rooms or custody suits. 

But Mike stayed. He couldn’t afford to be choosy and it was safer like that. A small humble place was much better for a shady ex-cop than a modern studio.

The contrast between bright red and dull olive was so violent, that Mike spotted blood stains from the doorstep.

Mike was tired after his night shift at the parking lot, but his tiredness was immediately gone. He froze, like a soldier in the jungles at a crack of a broken twig. The gun was in his hand even before he thought about it. Slowly, very quietly Mike made a few steps and shuddered as his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket. Mike shut it off as fast as he could and followed blood stains’ trail. The door in the kitchen that led to the basement was closed, though he left it open in the morning. Mike stopped and listened. All was still, only a faint broken sound was heard somewhere in the house. He stepped to the door and locked it up. Then he checked rooms and that was it, a broken window in the bedroom, the slat of window-blind gently tapping on the window frame in a draft. 

Mike breathed deep, held his breath for a second and exhaled slowly. Someone broke into his house and hid himself away in the basement like a wounded animal. Mike looked at the crimson stains on the floor and put his gun away. Whoever it was, he was down on his luck. Blood loss was vast; someone was going to bleed to death downstairs.

The tapping became louder, and Mike realized, that someone was tapping warily at the front door. He looked through the peephole, signed and turned the knob.

“Do you know that your window is broken?” 

Mike stepped out and closed the door after him. The sun was shining bright in the sky already, the quiet street began to arouse. 

A short dark guy with a dumb pony tail looked at Mike, half smiling as if he had never come in that house before and never been beaten by its master. 

“It’s you again,” Mike greeted him.

“May I come in?”

“No.”

The guy cocked his head.

“I am with a woman,” Mike explained. “A very hot one, can’t wait to get back to her in the bedroom.” 

“I see,” the guy nodded, staring at the logo at Mike’s uniform shirt and his walking shoes.

Mike didn’t care.

“So, get lost and tell the others not to come here. I am done with you,” he said.

“No problem, man. Just wanted to know if you by any chance have seen one of our guys around.”

“One of your… Can you tell me, why your guys are hanging around my house?”

“They’re not. But this one might. You should remember him. He was in the huddle, right behind your back.”

“Do you think I remember the guy who was behind my back?”

“The guys like you usually do,” the Mexican shrugged with his shoulders.

“You are all the same for me,” Mike shook his head.

“He brought you money.”

Mike narrowed his eyes.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I remember him. Taller than you. And smarter to my thinking. So, why are you looking for him here?”

“I’m just asking. You talked to him at his father’s car workshop. He stepped forward to deliver money to you. And we found this.”

The guy put his hand into the chest pocket, raising another hand in a calming gesture in respond to Mike’s intent look.

“Just a phone. You know, there is “the old guy” in the contact list. Interesting, huh?”

The Mexican pressed the ringer button and looked at Mike.

There was nothing at Mike’s face except irritation and boredom. At least he hoped so, because inwardly he was congratulating himself upon the precautions made earlier and Nacho being smart enough not to put “the old guy’s” real name into his contacts. 

“No answer,” the guy signed with mocking regret.

“Oh,” Mike signed back with sham sympathy. “Old guys, they’ve got a lot to do, you know. Much more than you think.” 

“Yeah. Hot women in the bedroom and all.”

The Mexican smiled and Mike frowned. 

“May I see your phone?”

Mike didn’t answer. He just stared at the mean bastard with that look on his face that used to make supposed criminals very nervous in interrogation rooms in Philadelphia.  
The hint was obvious and he should respond forcefully.

“Before you say anything,” the guy raised his hand, “I wanna tell you a story. It happened in Uruapan. A nice city in Michoacan state with nice night clubs. Several guys dressed in black broke in, opened fire and threw five severed heads right on the dance floor. Such a mess. Do you know whose heads these were? The rats. Those who betrayed their family and had to die. Some of them were only suspected, but that was enough. So, think twice before you answer me, because I ask you again. Have you seen him?”

“No,” Mike answered after a pause. 

“Is that your word?”

“It is.”

“Okay.”

The guy turned and went away without saying good-bye.

Mike made sure that he got into his car and drove away. Then he looked around and having noticed nothing suspicious went back into his house.

He pulled his phone out of the pocket. The thing was big and solid, and he had to make an effort to break it. The conversation took less than ten minutes, but time goes by differently for those who are agonizing and bleeding. Every minute counted, so Mike tried to concentrate and be quick. He locked the front and back doors, put several glasses on the broken window sill for their fall to be a warning signal in case someone would try to break in that way. Then he went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water and a towel.

Mike knew that Nacho would stand to the end and wouldn’t go down without fight. He opened the door to the basement and said in the darkness,

“It’s all right. He’s gone. You are safe.”

There was silence.

“If you have anything in your hand, I think you’d better take it away. I’m on your side.”

There was silence again, then the sound of a movement, a thud and a groan.

Mike turned the light on and headed downstairs.

He squatted down next to Nacho on the concrete floor, pushed away his gun, opened the bottle of water and carefully held his head. 

Nacho drank greedily, chocking and spilling water on his neck and chest. Mike waited patiently until he stopped. But he couldn’t take the bottle away. Nacho’s fingers dug painfully into his arm. His breath was irregular, fear and panic came into his eyes. He knew that he had gotten into a precious mess, and his life was hanging on Mike’s one word that he didn’t say. Nacho was glaring at Mike, but probably saw the faces of Salamanca brothers, who were grinding their axes bound to cut off his head. 

“I said, I’m on your side. You’re safe here.”

The grip on Mike’s hand weakened. Nacho groaned, a spasm of pain twisted his face. Blood was filtering through the fingers, that were covering his wounded side. 

“I know how much it hurts. You don’t need to play cool. Just let me see that.”

Nacho took away his hand, stretched himself out on the concrete floor, closed his eyes tightly and sobbed, unable to control himself, and Mike suddenly realized how young Nacho was.

The memory of his son was so painful, as if someone twisted a knife in an old wound. It flashed in Mike’s mind and was gone, replaced by dull habitual pain. Carefully, he lifted Nacho’s shirt up to reveal the blood. 

It was not his son. It was just a stupid boy that had a problem that he couldn’t solve himself. But Mike knew that he would do everything to return that boy to his father. Alive.


End file.
